Nuclear Spring

by Td Barnes

  “That’s them, Stacey. Those are the two commie bastards. Someone saved their sorry asses by placing them inside the mountain. That is because of their having the talent to hack into our government Internet servers. I assigned the dipshits here where they won’t have access to any emission systems.”

  Bradley leaned his weapon against a bale of hay and shouldered his saddle to place in the tack room.

  “You put them in the wrong place if you don’t want them to have access to emissions. Judging by the odor that I smell right now, there are plenty of emissions. The ventilation here is crap.” She wrinkled her nose to indicate her referring to the offensive smell of the feedlot and the photosynthesis biological process that formed non-nocuous, organic compounds from carbon dioxide and water. The residents learned that plants grown in darkness produced a noxious or an offensive smell in the process of converting carbon dioxide to carbon. The mountain did not need the oxygen released from the garden and thus released it to the outside through lubbers connected to a single ventilation pipe.

  “Yes, this portal is becoming a clusterfuck. The arrangement was okay at the time we moved in.”

  When they moved into the mountain, they stored the vehicles and weapons further inside the mountain to place the animals near the vent and the entrance. At the time, it made sense to have the horses near the door for easy egress and ingress for patrol duty. They did not anticipate using the vehicles to haul hay and such as was now occurring.

  “What is the plan?” They talked while dismounting from the horses and removing the saddles.

  “We will park the vehicles that we might need for resupply under tarps outside the portal. You can see we placed the Grizzly between the petting zoo and the entrance. We are installing a ventilation duct just for this section. Kathy is expanding her garden into the alcoves where we parked some of the vehicles. The new ventilation will include those alcoves. We are consolidating some of the munitions and ordnance to free up space for the extension of the chicken farm., most ranchers and farmers have migrated to this end of the tunnel, so the human support factor is not a problem.”

  “HOOAH, Grandpa.” Tom and Stacey looked up to see the five-year-old son of one of the ranchers waving at him from the outside of one of the cattle pens. Inside the pen, the rancher and his wife cleaning the pen stopped what they were doing when they saw the Bradleys.

  “Good morning, Colonel, ma’am,” the rancher said, touching the brim of his hat as he addressed Stacey.

  “Good morning, Clint and Sally,” Tom said, also touching the brim of his hat. Bradley dropped to one knee to ruffle the hair of the lad and adjust the dosimeter hanging on a lanyard around his neck. “HOOAH, my little soldier.” Sarge reared up on the boy to give him a lick. The play between the kid and the dog was on.

  Bradley sensed that the rancher wanted to say something and approached the pen.

  “Colonel, the missus, and I want to tell you how much we appreciate what you did after that ungrateful bum did what he did at the picnic.”

  “I appreciate you telling me that, Clint. I hated to punish everyone for the actions of one, but it bothered me that the others let him get away with it. Let one get away with it, and soon you have a gang of deadbeats to contend with.”

  “We have too many deadbeats in this mountain as it is,” Sally said. “Some are okay and are trying to find a notch within our new society, but there are some who think that their poop doesn’t stink like all the rest.”

  Clint shook his head, mimicking disbelief at his wife being so outspoken.

  Bradley’s eyes sparkled humor at what she said. Sally realized her speaking her mind and blushed. Everyone laughed because they all agreed.

  Bradley became serious. “Clint, this is no different from when we first came to the mountain. I inherited this problem and am not sure how to address it. We did our job of protecting those that the government felt deserved saving, but we are long past that point. Saving has become subsidizing, and I have a real problem with that.”

  “Everyone needs to earn their keep.”

  “I agree, but how do we go about doing that short of slavery?”

  “I don’t have the answer, Colonel.”

  “I do,” Sally said, sounding a bit recalcitrant. She reached down for her rake and extended it at arm’s length towards Bradley, holding its handle in a vertical position. “Send those lazy spongers to me, and I’ll ensure they earn their keep.”

  “I think Sally may have given me the answer,” Bradley said to Stacey during the five-mile handcar ride back to the mess.

  Stacey thought of the little boy playing with Sarge. “Honey, now that we are spending time on the mountain shouldn’t Sarge be wearing a dosimeter also?” Bradley thought for a moment before answering. “Any of our animals such as Sarge and the horses having human contact should wear dosimeters so we can know their level of accumulated dosage. Good thinking.”

  Tom and Stacey’s equestrian interests and activities always provided therapeutic relief from his secrecy career. The hobby also provided a common interest that they could share with one another. This rare moment of liberty from stress did not cease with the end of this morning’s ride. Human traffic was light in the tunnel at this early time of the day, but those seeing Tom and Stacey walking through the tunnel saw a couple in love—holding hands and chatting with each other without a care in the world. The moment ended when they dropped by their alcove quarters for Tom to change into his uniform before stopping at the mess hall where Bradley grabbed a cup of coffee to take with him to the War Room.

  Bradley headed towards the War Room in high spirits, relaxed after the thrill of the early morning ride and now the expectation of seeing progress on the ability to know what the weather was doing.

  After seeing the photo taking capability of the system, Bradley realized pictures of a suspected activity being much more reliable to his needs than the potential of hacking into servers. The priority, however, was Mitchell’s equipment, providing the mountain with the ability to monitor the weather and foresee possible windows of opportunity for outdoor chores. Today he hoped to see fresh data that would enable the mountain to plan future agriculture activities and prepare for the eventual return of winter.

  Bradley expected to find the War Room empty except for the radio operators in the radio compartment, He checked in with the duty officer and on duty squad of soldiers at their posts near the War Room and the War Rooms. To his surprise, he entered the War Room alcove, only to find Charlie Mitchell examining some photos aligned on the chalkboard. “You’re here early,” Bradley commented, his face showing surprise and intense curiosity.

  Mitchell looked up when he heard Bradley enter. “Man, am I glad to see you, Colonel. We have something, but I don’t know what.”

  Bradley removed his Kevlar and weapon, joining Mitchell at the chalkboard.

  “I finished with the filters last evening and decided to try it out early this morning because of the difference in time zones,” he explained while Bradley scanned the photos.

  “The upper left photo is the one we took from the satellite located by the nerds. Note the curvature at the top of the others. The two images are identical.”

  Bradley glanced at the monitors and the radiation level readout outside before asking, “You are right. Charlie, we should see some changes influenced by the jet stream.”

  “Agreed, but we are not.” He motioned to the meteorological equipment. “The resolution of this model varies., it obtains its information by dividing the surface of the earth into grid squares, and, by dividing the atmosphere into layers.”

  Bradley pulled up a desk chair to join Mitchell, who moved to sit down in front of the computer screens. Together, they scanned the data coming in, hoping something might provide an answer. They saw nothing to explain the lack of change.

  He pointed to a section of the image. “Charlie, shouldn’t the photos be picking up some cumulus or formations of stratus clouds here in between the radiation belt
s?”

  “Yes, we should be photographing multiple cloud layers. The data we see on the monitors include temperature, barometric pressure, humidity, wind speed, wind direction, and precipitation amounts. It must be an interface problem with the decoder or the filters preventing our obtaining a valid printout.” He paused while staring at the image. “Yet, we are detecting the fallout soup of 200 or so different radioactive isotopes.”

  “Charlie, are you familiar with Project Palladium where NSA and CIA played electronic games with the Russians in Cuba during the Cuban Crisis?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “The agencies needed to know the detection capabilities of the Soviet SA-2 and Tall King missile guidance radars. They used a ghost plane and submarines to spook them into turning them on and then spoofed them electronically to make them think they saw whatever the agency operators wanted them to see.”

  “Are you suggesting that someone might be spoofing us using a weather satellite?”

  “Aren’t we trying to hack into their servers to engage in cyber-warfare as we speak? If I intended to invade someone, I would want them to look elsewhere when I charged over the hill.”

  When Mitchell did not answer, Bradley continued his train of thought.

  “Why are we trying to obtain information from a foreign satellite rather than the ones you used at Groom Lake?’

  “I could not locate our satellites.”

  “Why? The EMP could not have taken them out at their altitude. Why are we able to find and access this unknown satellite, but not American?

  “Beats me. I do not have the answers you seek. These same questions have dominated my mind as well. I think you and I are on the same page on this. Someone is blowing smoke up our ass. On conventional WS equipment, we most likely would not have even seen the fallout layers in the photo. Whoever it is, they did not count on us having this advanced equipment and technology. Round up Doctor Hains and pin him down on how he located our satellite. More, I want to know who discovered it. Meanwhile, I suggest we concentrate on learning why we cannot find our weather satellite channels. Something does not smell right about that either.”

  ####

  Four days later

  Politician Hillary Clinton’s famous 2:00 a.m. emergency phone call occurred for Bradley by intercom, waking him up at 0138 hours with the clinic notifying him of SP5 Dawson beginning labor with the expectation of delivering at any time. Unlike the scene portrayed by Hillary Clinton about her opponent for the office of president of the United States, Bradley knew what to do. He donned his uniform and reported to the clinic with Stacey in toll. He play acts as if it pisses him off but feels pride when Stacey teases him about being a grandpa again.

  Bradley hung around outside the clinic, pacing like an expectant father until Stacey and the other wives chased him off to find something to do. He knew that he would be unable to sleep if he returned to his quarters and elected to head to the mess hall instead. The puzzling thoughts about the satellite situation lingered. Seeing Sammie in the mess hall area, he approached her, saying, “Lieutenant, may we have a word?” His using her rank when no one was listening indicated this being something official.

  “Sir.” She followed him to his commander’s table.

  Sammie carried her Kevlar tucked under her left arm, her right arm free for returning salutes. On her right leg, she wore a holster containing a Glock 17 pistol.

  Sammie preferred the Glock to the Beretta M9, a long-used military weapon. She found that after clearing a jam, the Beretta sometimes engaged its safety without the operator’s knowledge until they reacquired and squeezed the trigger. More, she did not like the grip, and it is not having night-sight capabilities.

  “What’s up, Dad?” she said after looking around to ensure that no one was listening to them.

  “Where would Homeland Security have its employee background records?”

  She replied. “No records, if that is what you are asking.” Knowing her dad, she knew he expected more than a yes or no answer to an inquiry such as this. “I am guessing, but I would say that they kept the background records at their headquarters. So after the scandal about the agency paying an outsourcing company to sit on its ass and do nothing. If the applicant breathed, the agency hired them. Keep in mind that the administration was pushing the hiring of gays and Muslims.”

  Bradley took a deep breath and let it out. “Thanks, Sammie.” He did not say anything further, but Sammie could tell his being concerned about something. Her dad never asked frivolous questions.

  Bradley arrived back in the War Room alcove where he found Doctor Hains and his team busy in the radio room with their cyberspace hacking project.

  Bradley entered showing no indication of having been there earlier this morning. He greeted Doctor Hains and his two assistants by name and sat down in an empty chair in their work area. He looked around the alcove.

  He turned to Doctor Hains and asked, “Are we making any headway getting into the satellite?” He glanced towards the War Room to see Mitchell listening to the exchange from his work area. He motioned with his head for Mitchell to join them. Mitchell recognized Bradley’s heading with this conversation and slid his chair in to join in what appeared to be a casual bull session.

  Hains scratched his head in thought. “Quite frankly, Colonel, the satellite is baffling.”

  “It is like a ghost,” one of the hackers said. “It responds to our commands, but what we get back lacks relevance to our orders.”

  The hacker, Peter Silverman, 25-years old, medium build, was the quiet type who preferred to work in silence. The other hacker, Arnold Perkins, looked the same age as Silverman, stood two inches taller, and outweighed him by 20 pounds.

  “At what age did you start hacking the Internet, Silverman,” Bradley asked conversationally.

  Both Silverman and Perkins looked at Bradley in confusion and then looked at Doctor Hains.

  “Sir, we are not hackers in the sense that you are inferring. Perkins and I are NSA. We are, or were cybersecurity agents assigned to the US Cyber Command.”

  “You attended the school in Boston for hacking into government computers?” Bradley asked.

  Both looked uncomfortable with Bradley’s question about a secret government school to train personnel to hack into government computers to test their security. They did not think anyone knew about this school. For security reasons, students selected to attend the school never revealed their names or for whom they worked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about the two former members of our team?”

  “Now, those two are hackers,” Perkins said. “I doubt if they ever finished any school. They dauntingly hack for the glory. They like to leave cyber graffiti wherever they get in. I’ll never figure out why Homeland Security wanted them here at the mountain.”

  “You never worked with them before?” Bradley asked in surprise.

  “Good gosh, no! The Department of Homeland Security’s Industrial Control Systems Cyber Emergency Response Team dumped them on us at the Nevada National Security Site two days before the EMP.”

  Mitchell listened to the exchange, not saying a word until now. “Which one of you located the weather satellite?”

  Silverman and Perkins exchanged looks. “Carlos found the satellite, sir. We must give him credit for that.”

  Hains saw Mitchell and Bradley glance at each other. “Come to think of it; he is the one who located the Internet satellite that we are working on.”

  Bradley looked at the of the MacBook Air computers supplied by quartermaster inside the mountain for their work. Which computer did he use to interrogate the satellite to get the data you showed me when you located the first satellite?”

  “I believe he used his computer that we issued him here inside the mountain. We do not have it here.”

  It became embarrassing quiet among the men. No one needed to share their thoughts. Mitchell broke the silence by saying. “I have something to show all of you.” He sto
od up and led the others into the War Room. He went to his desk where he flipped a data switch to feed the computer display onto the 12-foot screen. “This is a live weather feed.”

  He turned back to the display on the big screen. Addressing Hains, he pointed to the dark bands of what they assumed to be masses of fallout controlled by the jet stream and said, “This shows us what we purport to be fallout parked in two jet streams, one above us in Canada and another covering Central and South America. I can believe the one over Canada as the data contains all the other elements of weather data.”

  Facing them all for emphasis, he said, “The red flag is the lack of mobility. The jet stream never stays stationary for a month or more. Someone wants us to think the nuclear winter has socked in all these countries south of us. What if it has not?”

  Doctor Hains expected it when both Bradley and Mitchell turned to him. He said, “It seems that EMP devices are not the only thing our friends have placed in orbit. Our satellites are being jammed or somehow denied service. We will go to work on it.”

  “We need to know how, but more, who and why.”

  Bradley knew what he must do. Sarge and he left the alcove with all the others shifting their activities and priorities to the possibilities of the mountain receiving false data. During the walk to the new location of the Command Center, he dredged up experiences with what he considered space warfare where almost every nation with satellite capability also engaged in snooping activities both for intelligence and to advance their technology. Everyone did it, including the United States. They all overlooked instances where one might test their technology by taking out a piece of space junk, or another’s satellite that they knew to be inoperable or unimportant. Beyond that, no one did the unthinkable until China released the EMP attack. Today, the world, such as it is, appeared to have a new bad guy in the sky.